Long Squats Poems
Long Squats Poems. Below are the most popular long Squats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squats poems by poem length and keyword.
It only hurts until you cry.
The slammed door quietens,
your baby eyes grow old,
in the dark, where no one sees
or cares.
"Life!" She said,
"You blink and it's still there,
waiting for your next move."
'Keep going!" Say’s the shopkeeper,
of your worn-down wares,
and you wonder is he,
a digitally created memory,
your ancestors sewed,
into your dreams.
The bedpan has been warmed.
A nurse throws up into a toilet bowl.
Father comes back,
catches you singing,
in your boxed-in bedroom.
slams your ears.
with wall-busting words.
"Cut!" The Director shouts.
The camera's keep rolling,
A movie now squats,
in an empty room - waiting,
for more directions.
The hurt has crawled back,
into its featherbed,
where mice still nibble
last year’s leftover straw.
He squats the entire day,
extending his empty cup.
Cold sweat oozing from the pores
of his slack bristly white face,
yet he crouched spiritless,
hoping for kindness to tumble.
Desire split his dry lips,
but he stoops without a murmur,
parting the busy shoppers,
roaming up and down the Plaza.
He makes rhythm with his cup,
a somber rhythm that plunges into the ground.
People pass by in a rush and ignore his plea.
Without warning a weight, falls upon his head,
and he collapses to the ground.
His weary eyelids stop throbbing,
the sweat drys up ,
and mercy plunges desperately
into his cup, but poverty stares.
©2013 Christine Phillips
At first I wondered if all things have been said
already, spent
by poets of the past. They stole our words.
We found them stashed. We rearranged, often
deranged the lines with slash marks and nonsense.
Death was pretty back then
before we hid, behind
the nettles of windows and doors.
The lowering of a casket, not too many urns.
Burning the night
oil and the sound of ravens -
a door knocker that eerily caws.
The cause of writing strong with true feelings
that crawl up one’s spine, teeth that deeply plunge
into the carotid. The festering of sores
Upon palms and heels. Worn
out pages with feather quills and ink blots
cold and alone in the night squats.
The tender rendering of a seagull and a ghost.
A captain that is bearded and robust. The tales
of blind mice and braided hair; and children
with no coded habitat. They curl up
at your feet, next to the roaring fire
of your speech and devour each word
like curds and honey. Honey,
that is sweet. You buzz with excitement
as you leap off each cliff, hang-gliding.
The tummies of development,
in the youth, filled. Likewise their mouths
form oohs and ahhs; and good girls and boys
laugh and weep. They kick the dust
as they follow their own paths home -
imagination goes wild like a frenzy of bees,
their nest disturbed with a poking branch.
The lustful sweet tooth, aflame - a story
takes shape climbing a lighthouse or tower
into the ears, mouths, eyes and brain.
Already spent, nonsense! Say what you have
to say, from sun to sun. Poet speak!
3/19/2023
Dark night
Haze shades grey sky;
Humid weather groans
~~~~~~~~~
Lovers waltz
Wedding banquet glimpses;
Joy unfurls passion
~~~~~~~~~
Old cobbler squats
Busy with mending
Worn-out footwear soles
~~~~~~~~~
Odd couple argue
Over supermarket things;
Appetites collide
~~~~~~~~~
Newspaper vendor
Old lady preaches news;
Gloomy Monday
~~~~~~~~~
Wet market ambience
Hazardous slippery floors;
Unsightly misadventure
~~~~~~~~~
Old friends meet
Rough bump and detour;
Nothing to transact
~~~~~~~~~
Salesman selling
Nobody's buying;
U-turn runaway
~~~~~~~~~
Smoke fragrance
Disturbing haze flings;
Coughing episodes
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo trees
Marking the years;
Resilient grooves
~~~~~~~~~
Words on rice paper
Tell of old dreams;
Unfinished fragments
~~~~~~~~~
Old sepia memory
Old times forgotten;
Rainy day debris
~~~~~~~~~
Old ghostly figures
Lingering presence;
Blessings abide
~~~~~~~~~
Mosaic motifs
Classic designs haunt;
Baby boomer keepsake
~~~~~~~~~
Howling wind
Sings eerie songs;
Haunting melody
~~~~~~~~~
Message in a passage
Wet dreams sum;
Memory reflects
~~~~~~~~~
Ecstasy greets joy
Calm the new charm;
Placid tranquility
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
12 October 2014
Singapore
Sitting in the outhouse,
Gettin' high on turds;
Thinking about my crappy life,
Can't sum it up in words
The kids ain't worth a quarter,
They're meaner than the mob;
All they do is eat and fart,
They won't go find a job!
I have a cat named Bonzo,
He hates his litterbox;
Squats wherever he chooses,
Right on my favorite socks
My stupid dog Binky,
Dumber than an English pea;
He never barks at strangers,
Instead, he barks at me!
My bills are in collections,
I'm about to lose my job;
The car's in repossession,
I feel like a rotten slob
Maybe I'll grab my gun,
And try to end it all;
Enough with all the drama,
I'm tired of takin' the fall!
When I think I've had enough,
Others have it worse;
Suicide's the cheap way out,
It's time to put God first!
Who knows if I'll be homeless,
Standing in a kitchen's line;
Today the skies are dreary,
Tomorrow's sun will shine
Rugged moss-covered rocks scale the ancient mountain
To slumber in the vaporous mantle of cloud, crystal icy water cascades down
Fine mist settles upon my face, I cup my hand to water and take a sip
A meandering river of opaque glassy emerald waters plunge then dash on by
Waters burble, drum rolls over beaten rocks, natures crescendo plays
Crisp air clings, then dances through the hazy hills, to twirl, then gently dip
Each step my mind captures the moment, rituals of village life
A girl stirs indigo water in a barrel, so I stop to ask how and why
Points to tiny purple flowers, vibrant colours leap from the purses on display
Nearby, goats perch precariously chewing, oblivious to people walking by
Salivating smells of chilli chicken, coriander waft lazily through the air
An elderly man squats, cigarette hangs off his lip, quietly readies for the day
Visitors desire unique experiences, risk to go where no one else has been
Breathe, the intrepid driver hurtles, churning mud, on the slippery road
Dashes past villagers and temples so I can walk amongst the clouds
Guide Ly Thy Ly takes me to her home and before the family altar
Feel spirit connected, I am humbled, every day they give thanks and pray
Tribal woman shares her heart, stands tall like the mountain and just as proud
Misty peaks, tumbling waterfalls, granite mountain ranges
Splendiferous from the earth to the sky
Natures wondrous beauty, stirs all my senses and curious mind
I learn, we love, we share, we take our place in the world
A spirit nature flourishes in your heart and in your soul
Simple is a way of life, so be gentle and be kind
Written on 11/07/2019
Entered in the "Tri-Con contest"
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
I can remember passing through
this town as a child,
stopping for a pie
on our way north.
Now it’s bypassed – barely more
than a clot lodged
in the spidery veins of a map.
Most of the houses are empty,
the bakery is gone.
I've come here again and stop
to walk beneath
a verandah’s pinholed shade,
past the general store,
the post office
and a butcher shop -
all shut.
Behind windows,
generations of dead blowflies
have left a black crust
piled against the glass.
Some hang from webs
like frozen pendulums
hollowed out by spiders
and passing time.
Across the street an asphalt
school yard is dissolving into grass.
I think about the children
who once skipped
and ran headlong
into their lives from here,
where now a clapped out truck
sits propped up on bricks.
Dumped and stripped of worth
an open bonnet seems to gape
its final breath.
Further up the street,
the scars left
by two world wars
are etched in a modest memorial
to the town's fallen youth.
I run my fingers slowly
down the list of names
and whisper each
into the ethereal silence
in which they rest.
This age has made them unreal.
Elevated on the nations alters
they seem unaccustomed
to the height.
Their age has them stalking
the nearby hills, irreverent,
all too young, blasting rabbits
and empty beer bottles
lined up like soldiers
with their fathers guns.
At the end of the street,
a gutted church squats like
a full stop to the town.
Nothing is beyond except
a gravel road to somewhere else
and a small cemetery
of lichened headstones.
The last person buried here, I read,
was Helen O’Brien who died
in august sixty five
and beside her, a year before,
her daughter, aged just four.
I make my way back
and reach out
to the ghosts that inhabit
this place but can't connect.
A feral cat slinks off
into the shadows of the pub.
Few cars stop here anymore.
Thirty minutes drive away
a multi laned highway
barrels traffic to the coast.
There, towering apartments
glaze the sky where rooms,
like empty shells,
murmur the lonely sound
of breaking waves.
Sometimes there are evenings
when a sadness rides a breeze
from inland to the coast
and goes unnoticed,
except perhaps for a child
who grows silent
and stares at something
wandering the distances
way beyond the reach
of grown up sight.
There's this little fuzzy wuzzy bunny,
Who all year round eats loads of honey.
Now you’d expect his tummy to be runny
This fuzzy wuzzy little bunny
However, the honey has an adverse effect
And when I tell you, you will not like it I expect
The poor sod suffers from severe constipation
Until he feels a bowel movement sensation
He seeks a discrete place to release
The load that make him look obese
His baked in for a year in his tummy
The poor fuzzy wuzzy little bunny
With his hind legs astride, bunny squats just a bit
Knowing the pain he has to suffer when it's time to have a sh-t
First, come out as little pebbles then follow the great big boulders
The kind that gives him the feeling his been split from his a-se to his shoulders
He chews grass as a medicinal lozenge
To numb his a-se that now looks like a blood orange
Fuzzy wuzzy little bunny knows it all over when he lets out a great big fart
Then picks up his mess discretely and hides it in isle 14 at Kwik Mart.
sitting indian style underwater
learning to breathe easier
when i float back up,
she greets me with a smile that is all her own
she squats down to kiss me
i smile and pull her back for another
two people who once loathed each other finding common ground in love
God Knows Chemistry Proper
watching her sway to sheena easton's 'morning train (9 to 5)
making cheesy tuna pasta, texas toast, and a salad for us
holding back tears for missing what i missed for all those years
wholly thankful for personal growth and maturation
my heart so full of love in ways so wonderfully unexpected
her smiling back at me with a love so refreshingly obvious
two people now noticing that life is what we make it in sincerity's wisdom
God Knows Chemisty Proper
A farmer met a wizard who was wearing odd regalia
The wizard gave him seed of magic carrots from Australia
You sow them just like normal but they all grow upside down
The leaves will grow like roots, the carrots stick out of the ground
The farmer dug and rotavated, levelled off the soil
He was super motivated, those seeds mustn’t spoil
He worked so hard, that shovel he was pushing and a shoving
When he was done his back was bad and now he’s good for nothing
Those magic carrots, upside down, all turned out to be beauties
But poor old farmer’s stuck indoors on lightweight household duties
He’s standing in the kitchen where he’s washing pans and pots
His wife is in the carrot field and smiling as she squats